Category Archives: Shannon’s Adventures in Writing

As usual, as I review a book I just finished, I do my research on the fly. As I pulled up info on the author of World of Shell and Bone the first thing that confuses this blonde Irish girl is the name of the author. Under Goodreads it’s Adriana Ryan but on the cover it’s S.K. Falls. So, I went to S.K. Falls site (http://www.skfalls.com/posts/world-of-shell-and-bone-book-tour/) and she has it “tagged” as Adriana Ryan but the author is S.K. Falls.

*sigh* S.K. Falls is the author – so says my little pink-clad Kindle.

But – before I crack open the book and give away my personal thoughts on the story – I just want to touch base on the book’s cover. It’s pretty. It’s eye catching. Shit, it’s down right awesome! I’m a sucker for an enticing book cover. However, as I gaze at the beautiful girl covering her nakedness, all sexy and mermaid-like with green fields and russet trees in the background…I have to say that it really doesn’t match the story. But, it did it’s job and caught my eye. Way to go Ms. Falls/Ryan.

I learned this was an indie/self-published dystopian novel just before I purchased it the other day. And I was intrigued seeing as how I’m also about to venture into that world. I’ve not read too many indie pub books and there’s a reason for that. Most suck. However, I applaud the effort and bravery of indie publishing but most indie authors are not getting proper editing, thus, their grand ideas that could have been grander…suck. (Just spend a few bucks and hire a qualified editor to get that baby shipshape, okay?)

In Goodreads I gave World of Shell and Bone 4 stars. Ms. Falls earned it. The storyline and plot and arc were mesmerizing, original. Much of the prose was beautiful. For example the lead character, Vika, has a fleeting vision of her missing little sister, and compares her to the stories of people star gazing in order to see meteors (there are no stars in her city due to the pollution*): “If I stand motionless, I can see her out of the corner of my eye. She is like a broken meteor, blazing from one corner of the room to another, her long hair trailing after her. She is the afterimage of my childhood.” Wonderful visual, right?

*spoiler alert*

Well, the first, umm, 50% of the book kept me hooked. Vika’s transformation from “coward” to gutsy gal is seamless. She’s really not the mindless robot her dystopian government or fascist mother molded her to be. Shale (the “Husband”) is a unique character. Sensitive, dutiful and passionate.

Now, the story hits a bumpy road when they are about to move forward with the Asylum rescue. The writing seems to get bogged down, as if the author’s fingers had been injected with Novocain. The sentences get shorter, seemingly careless. The visceral emotion is missing. And some minor grammatical issues stood out (i.e. quotation marks missing at the beginning of paragraphs in continuous streams of dialogue and some issues with show vs. tell).

Now, on the whole, I really enjoyed this book. It’s important I stress this as I’m about to tear a few things apart. And I’m not trying to be mean, because it’s clear Ms. Falls is highly talented and I’m expecting her future work to be much more improved.

Deep breath, here it goes:

First, I had a problem with the present tense usage. Most first person POV is written in past tense. It’s easier on readers and, honestly, easier on the writer. Now, that’s just my personal opinion, and the present tense usage did not detract from the overall story.

But the items that did detract from the story were the glossed over sex scene, the lack of emotion during critical scenes and the timeframe/timeline issues.

You all know I’m wild about wild sex scenes and I’m nutty about gentle (read PG rated) sex/love scenes. There’s no hard and fast rule that every romance (I’m calling Shell and Bone romance but it’s probably closer to fantasy) has to have smut and steam. And I’m okay with that. But the build up between Vika and Shale was so sweet that when they came to do the deed and three lackluster sentences later Vika proclaims they were “utterly sated” I whipped my head around and squealed say waaa? at my dog.

The emotions fell flat toward the last half of the story. All that beautiful prose early in the book was missing during a lot of scenes that should have been filled with angst. No emotion/visceral during the rape scene, no emotion/visceral response during the beating (I didn’t even know she got beat up until another character said something). She’d never seen stars before and ends up in a desert with clear skies…how come we never get her impression when she looks at the night sky?* We, the reader, lose a little bit of love for Vika when we can’t “feel” what she’s going through.

I also had a hard time with the timeline. I thought she was in the middle of menstruating when she and Shale made love for real. And the next thing I knew she was having morning sickness and was 4 weeks pregnant. And then she was at the camp and she was 6 weeks pregnant. I don’t know, but the events didn’t match up with the passage of time.

I’m done beating Ms. Falls with my wet noodle.

In closing, all I can say is that I’m super proud of S.K. Falls for being a gutsy girl and self-publishing this entertaining novel and (hopefully) she has widened the bumpy indie-pub road for the rest of us inspiring indie authors.

Dead Ever After was a comforting Sookie Stackhouse book. Slow, steady and nearly predictable. I, unlike many out there from what I’ve read, enjoyed who she ended up with. I always suspected “he” would be her choice. All in all, this seemed to be the most slow-paced book in the series. As Dead Ever After was the final book, I guess I expected more FLASH! BAM! ZING! and ZAZZLE!

As I read it, I could almost feel Ms. Harris’ anguish to complete this story and put Sookie in a good place so they both could get on with their lives. I know Ms. Harris wrote it the way she wanted and I admire her for that. However, I do wish there was a bit more KA-POW!…but I wasn’t unhappy with it.

In the May 2, 2013 WSJ article, How to Kill a Vampire, I was stunned to learn how so many fans reacted to the ending. Some taunted Ms. Harris, some threatened to commit suicide. Really? Well, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle got bullied for having killed Sherlock Holmes and was forced to bring him back. So I guess when you have a solid fan-base, said fan-base can get a bit passionate.

Fans are important but in the end it’s the author who has the story in their head and it’s their job to be true to themselves and get the story right. And if fans don’t like it, well, I guess there’s always Fan Fiction, right E.L. James?

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I just read a remarkable article on Kristen Lamb’s blog about writers pushing their character’s comfort levels and forcing them to become uncomfortable – in turn, this tension transforms a good book into a great one.

Now, uncomfortable really is an understatement. When you (the reader) think the story is just thumping along toward a happy conclusion and then all of a sudden someone poisons the water well with a gray, bloated corpse you start flipping the pages and absorbing the pain and terror and you become anxious to find out who the bad guy is and if they get caught. Tension.

In my new novella series, The Market and Center of the Universe (both coming this summer), my protagonist, Teagan O’Leary, is in a new city and starting a new life. She’s lost weight and trying to overcome her verbally abusive ex-husband’s, well, abuse. She struggles with her body image, her new loneliness and just plain old fitting in.

Now throw a handsome, secretive man into the mix. During the day, James Lightbody is a warehouse manager at the store where Teagan works. But by night, he’s an up and coming rock star.

And for some reason Teagan can’t quite grasp, James is pursuing her.

Teagan has to fight her instincts and make the decision to either hide and lick her wounds or agree to meet this tall, dark, sexy rocker at the local bar where his band is playing.

Now if it were me, I might stay home and eat ice cream and watch The Walking Dead instead of taking that chance. Actually, I did do something like that once when I was invited to a party back in my singles days. I was shy, new to Seattle and scared as shit.

But then I was invited again – luckily my sweet co-workers were persistent and overlooked my bashfulness…not to mention I was hella cute and fun. So I hitched up my big girl panties and went. Alone. And I had a blast mingling and making new friends.

Fiction is full of tough decisions that we may never be brave enough to make. But we (the reader) need to dive into a story that’s going to make us squirm, make us cringe, make us wish we had the balls to face the scary challenges the courageous/terrified/timid characters are facing.

Please take a moment to check out Ms. Lamb’s article. She references one of the greatest dystopian stories EVER (The Road by Cormac McCarthy) – and I got serious chills recalling the basement scene from the book (the movie is good but the book…aw, yeah). Tension.

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So…I apparently had some time on my hands today (not really but I needed to make time for you, my friends). In case you hadn’t noticed, I changed up my blog a little in preparation for my new novella series launch. Look for the first two novellas to be published this summer (The Market and Center of the Universe), and the third novella (5th & Pike) in fall.

In the mean time, here’s a short list of things that would send this spunky Irish girl into a jig (possibly in public, but more likely in the privacy of my living room):

5. George R.R. Martin completes the next Game of Thrones book before I hit menopause. (I’m really not that old…jus’ sayin’)

4. Psycho fans of the Sookie Stackhouse books: leave Charlaine Harris alone. NOW. Get over yourselves. It’s her story. It’s Sookie’s ending. And if you don’t like it, go sit on the Space Needle and spin. (P.S. I am buying Dead Ever After this weekend, can’t wait and I will respect Ms. Harris’ work). Click link to read WSJ interview: http://t.co/56KnEYlJnw

3. Benedict Cumberbatch, Henry Cavill and Jeremy Renner really need to come to Seattle and work on my overgrown backyard. And I mean the grassy space behind my house, sickos. I’ll provide the iced tea and sun screen and watch from my balcony. I may give an order or two but I’m sure they can handle it.

2. Snow Patrol and Gaelic Storm need to do an album together. Or at least a song. I do believe they are in/near Santa Monica, CA as we speak? And then both bands need to come to Seattle and perform at The Moore Theatre (giving me front row center seats as a thank you for my brilliant idea) or, even better, come and perform in my newly landscaped backyard. It’s huge and we have a forest behind our fence = great acoustics. I’ll provide the Guinness of course.

1. Learning how to market my upcoming novella series – I’m doing serious research people. My story(ies) are fucking awesome – if I do say so myself. And the first one is currently with my editor who will help kick it into stellar perfection.

Here’s an unedited excerpt from The Market – A Teagan O’Leary Novella to whet your appetite (note, it was formally published under the title Winter Twilight as part of the Snowbound Hearts Anthology with Still Moments Publishing – they have reverted the rights back to me and I have changed the story a bit to make it more emotional and exciting.

The Market by Shannon O’Brien:

The overhead lights dimmed. On the stage, the bar manager tapped his finger on the mic. “Let’s give a round of applause to Seattle’s own Mofo Mojo!” The fervor in the room grew exponentially, and then, as the audience watched the band members take their places on the stage, it quieted.

James stepped to the center microphone, his guitar lose in his grip. The filtered spotlight bathed him like an ethereal angel. Behind James and to his left, Johnny plucked his bass guitar. Several beats later, Stan picked up the rhythm on his drums. James raised his head and chills danced up and down my spine when he began to sing, a slow song with mystic lyrics. His voice was deep and hypnotic. When he reached the chorus, the rhythm sped up, commanding, his hand a blur as he strummed his guitar. The chords of his neck strained and he scanned the room. He was reaching out to everyone. And we were reaching back.

The song ended with a long note hanging in the air. Two quiet beats passed, and then the crowd roared, screams and piercing whistles breaking through the applause.

A dozen songs later, each implausibly better than the one before, the band announced they were taking a break.

“So, what did you think?” James asked when he returned to the table.

Glancing around, it was impossible not to notice the patrons staring at us. James was on the cusp of brilliance and I still wasn’t clear why he was interested in me. But he deserved an honest answer. “I think you guys need to work harder on getting that manager.”

His cheeks were flushed from the performance, his eyes crazed with adrenaline as they raked over my face and the swells of my breasts.

“You’re so goddamned beautiful.” His lips turned down at the corners, creating a humorless frown. “You don’t know how bad I want to kiss you right now,” he murmured and looped a strand of my hair around his finger.

The sounds of the bar vanished as I felt my body slant into him. His sweat and spicy cologne swirled around me, making me salivate. He licked his pouty lips and lowered his head, his eyelids heavy as his face came closer, closer, closer…until we jerked back at the same time when the chair next to me was kicked away from the table.

Johnny sat down with two beers. He gulped one and clanked the other down in front of James. James scowled and slid the glass over to me. “I said three.”

“I’m good.” I pushed it back, leaving a foamy trail on the table. Grave tension seeped into the air and swept away our enchanted spell.

“Teage,” James said loudly, “I’m sorry my friend is such an asshole. I’d tell you he’s just in a bad mood, but sadly, this is normal for him.”

Johnny glared at James before he jumped off the stool and walked away. James rolled his eyes and shook his head. “He’s been acting strange for a couple of weeks now. I’m not sure what that was all about.”

I smeared the wet streak with my index finger. “Maybe he’s jealous?”

The silence at our table grew, made palpable by the raucous sounds around us. I forced myself to meet his gaze and make sure I hadn’t inadvertently inserted my foot into my mouth. But he just stared at me, his eyebrows knitted together with affectionate concern.

“You may be right. I don’t know. But no matter.” He flicked his hand, as if erasing the events with one gesture.

Stan, the stout drummer, and George, the baby-faced keyboardist, stumbled over with fists full of beers, trailing a line of buxom girls. A glassy-eyed brunette wiggled up to James but he brushed her off and scooted closer to me until our thighs touched. “Our break is almost over. I saw you came in a cab. Can I drive you home?”

I nodded, happy I would get some time alone with James and also disappointed that the magic of our near first kiss was gone.

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Whew! I kinda fell off the face of the writing world there for a bit. The holidays and renovating an old house seeped into my blood and my writing bug seeped out. But…I’m back! And I really, really, really want to get going on the final edits of the ghost story I’ve been working on.

However, last week I became motivated out of the blue. I had stolen a quiet moment to re-read A Storm of Swords when a friggin’ lightning bolt seared my brain. Really! So I jumped up, ran to my laptop and I’ve sat on my butt ever since, writing a new and fresh book (fresh for me, at least). I’ve created a wonderful character and a new world inspired by Katniss Everdeen, Arya Stark and – dating myself here – Cathy Dahl (if you don’t know who she is, I’m not gonna tell). These are strong young women whose lives had been turned upside down, yet they powered through their physical, mental and environmental tests the best way they knew how. I’m having a BLAST!

So…I guess I’m still procrastinating. But, hey! I can tell my writing technique has improved immensely – so that’s a positive. And maybe that’s why it’s such a challenge [read torture] to keep editing my first book. It has three years of my on-going writing trials and tribulations weaved in which makes it that much harder [read teeth-gnashing-anguish] to correct. The weight of my Irish guilt also presses on my shoulders given there’s a wonderful agent out there waiting for me to send my full manuscript to her. I know, I know, I’m not even Catholic but the guilt is strong. Good thing we Irish are so damned lucky!

“The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof shit detector.”
– Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961)

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Happy New Year! So far, 2013 has blossomed into a crisp white canvas yearning to be decorated with light and love and success. The possibilities for everyone to start fresh and create a wonderful new year is invigorating.

I’m back editing my paranormal adventure novel! Yea! It took me almost all of December to work my way through one chapter, the holidays took the wind out of my writing sails. But the boys are back in school, the hubby is back at work and I’ve completed my line edits for the next chapter and just began the changes. Writing never felt so good.

My goal: finish the edits by the end of January and get my polished manuscript out to the agent I met at ECWC ASAP. While I still have to sneak away to paint the 100-year-old house we are renovating and take the wee-ones to the dentist, my mind and body are back in the game.

And speaking of games…Way to go Seattle Seahawks! Woot! Woot! 2013 is going to rock 😉

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*The characters and events portrayed in this story are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. All rights are reserved under U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. Les Stroud from the Discovery Channel’s Survivorman is a real person.

So…this is the short horror story I sent into the Writers Digest contest last month. I enjoyed writing Little Survivorman so much that I wanted to know what would happen if there was an eerie twist. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Little Survivorman and the Headstone Hills by Shannon O’Brien

The boy squeezed his eyes tight as shivers rolled down his arms. Visions of blue walls, a pirate ship kite hanging over the bed and a dismembered Lego helicopter flashed across his mind. School books and baseball cards, stacked like a Main Street square, cover his small desk…

His eyes popped open. The sun setting behind the mountains painted the fingerling clouds dazzling tangerines and pinks. The air had retained the heat of the day, but a chill graced the late afternoon breeze. The high trills of little girls and little boys laughing faded along with the grating squeak-squawk of the swings.

Stupid butterflies! Stupid beetle! Get off my foot!

The striped insect tumbled through the air as the boy kicked his leg. The orange and blue butterflies flittered into the trees, leaving him all alone in the shadows of the gnarled oaks. The dark forms of the warped stones scattered across the hills stretched and extended as if they were flowers, nurtured and fed by the vanishing light. The grass swirled in the wind, releasing the tangy-clean scent of center field. His fingers itched for his ball and glove while he waited for Mom.

Just beyond the arching stones, a weeping creek trickled down the hill and the sunset ignited the water into flowing red lava.

The wind ruffled his hair, sending goose pimples down his arms. He traced a finger over his skin, mesmerized by the hairs standing at attention. A hand-sized maple leaf somersaulted across the grass as he glanced around for his ride…home.

Tired of just sitting, the boy pushed himself up, brushed the dirt from his jeans and tossed his backpack over one shoulder. It was going to be dark soon and he didn’t want get stuck out in the open.

He studied the jagged mountain range. Was there a town along the baseline? Should he head that direction? Downhill, a wooded valley ran parallel with the mountains and the creek likely flowed into a bigger stream. Survivorman always said to follow a river because it will lead you to people.

Valley-hooo!

The decline was steeper than it looked as he angled his feet and allowed gravity pull him down. Upon entering the forest, the absence of light was unsettling. He jumped at an owl hooting. Quivering, the boy snapped his head around as unseen critters skittered under bushes, rustling the low stems. Thick twigs snapped under his Vans and echoed off the dense trees like rifle shots.

Dropping the backpack on a log, the boy rooted inside for his green hoody and flashlight while commending his intelligence on packing all the necessary survival gear. Just like Les, his Survivorman hero.

Locating the stream, the boy hopped along the flat rocks until his flashlight flickered. He froze, prickles of fear crept up his chest as he shook his only light-source. Moments later the yellow beam steadied and he exhaled a huff of relief.

Walking in the woods at night wasn’t such a good idea. Survivorman would have created a lean-to, built a fire and foraged for edibles by now. The boy ambled over to a fallen tree, rustled around the ground for kindling and created a ring with fist-sized rocks. The magnesium bits he scraped off sparkled like Fourth of July fireworks as they rained upon the dry twigs. He lowered his face and blew on the smoky embers until flames appeared. After savoring a chocolate chip granola bar, the heat from the fire lulled his heavy eyelids closed.

“What a nice little boy.”

The peppermint did nothing to mask the cheese stench of his breath. Extending a shaking hand, the man pointed toward the trees along the edge of the park. “I think my puppy ran into the woods.” The candy clicked against crooked teeth as he spoke and his rheumy eyes welled with tears along their pink edges.

Rooted to his spot, the boy looked toward the playground at the top of the hill and then turned to stare at the trees, wondering how far he should go to be nice to the white-haired stranger.

“Let’s be quick about it,” the man whispered, glanced around and clasped the boy by the upper arm. They hobbled down the hill. “Can’t you hear him?” the man asked and then inhaled a wheezy breath. “Poor li’l fella’s whimpering over there somewheres.”

Indeed, the boy could make out a low whine above the breeze rustling the tree tops. He pushed branches and shrubs aside and stepped into the dimness, shivering with the sudden drop in temperature. Peering into the dark nook, the lump on the ground was no puppy. Timmy Webster, the little redheaded boy from school, lay curled on his side. Yellow bungee cords bound his skinny arms and spindly white legs. A patch of silver duct tape slashed across his face like a robotic smirk. The boy turned his head, green eyes round with fear. The whimpering intensified. With surprising strength, the old man pushed the boy down and his chin dug into the ground, filling his mouth with acrid earth. Before the boy could spit and scream for help, a sharp smack thudded the side of his head and the beast of darkness swallowed him whole.

A thunderous snap-crunch! yanked him out of his troubled sleep. Bolting upright, the boy banged his shoulder on a branch of the tree.

“Wh-who’s there?” His voice trembled.

Rubbing his sore shoulder, he focused on the inky black stream snaking along the ground. Shadowy trees bowed in the howling wind. Between the foliage, pairs of phantom green orbs peeked out of murky spaces.

Tossing sticks onto the dying fire, he blew until flames licked high into the air, forcing back the encroaching darkness.

A high-pitched yowl pierced the air. A banshee, straight from H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks wailed and cackled until the wind whipped it into hiccupping sobs. Leathery wings beat against his head and the boy jumped up, thrashing his hands to remove the squeaking rodents. The swarm of bats shot across the clearing and curled up into the sky, briefly blacking-out the yellow moon.

“Keee…laaaaan…” the wind whistled almost sweetly. Catching his breath, Keelan focused on the blustery echo. Mom always said his name fit him perfectly: Irish for small and fair.

The sobbing wail came again, only further away. Keelan slid down the dead tree until his butt smacked the ground, pulled his knees tight to his chest and ignored the pressure in his bladder. Not even the burning desire to pee would pull him from his fire tonight.

The misty morning almost washed away the eerie vibes from the night before. Red-breasted Robins kicked at leaves and clenched squirming worms between their beaks. With the fire safely out, Keelan resumed his hike along the bank of the stream. The sun climbed higher and burned away the haze. The trees thinned and the creek narrowed until it was swallowed by a muddy pool at the base of a terracotta precipice. He inhaled the mildew and silt aromas before exhaling a stream of vapor. Craning his neck, there was only one way out of the chilly dead-end valley.

Hand over hand, the boy clambered up the cliff wall like a small, green Spiderman with a lumpy backpack. He grabbed onto roots and found footholds just big enough for the toe of his checkered Vans.

“KEEE…LAAAAN!” The wind roared and gusted across the crag, swirling around the boy and threatening to knock him off. His hands grappled with the lip of the cliff, his arms shook as he struggled against gravity and Mother Nature.

Suddenly, a hand seized his wrist and yanked. He flew over the edge, landed hard on his stomach and oxygen evacuated his lungs in a long whoosh.

“Hey kid, you okay?”

Wiping the stinging sweat out of his eyes, he caught his breath and looked up at the strange boy. Keelan could have been staring at his reflection in a mirror were it not for the twin’s eyes. They were two shimmering pools of the brightest blue Keelan had ever seen.

“Who are you?”

The twin smiled and shifted his backpack higher, threading an arm through the strap. Even his clothes and hair were the same as Keelan’s. Mom always told him he had chameleon hair; auburn indoors and strawberry-blond in the sunlight.

“My name’s Brennen. Mom says it’s Irish for teardrop.” He kicked a rock into the ravine. Bouncing, the lone stone knocked other pebbles free to keep it company until they reached their destination.

“I’m Keelan.” He didn’t share his name’s meaning. That was his secret.

“C’mon. We have to go.” The twin bounced on the balls of his feet, seemingly in a hurry.

The sun trekked closer to the snow-tipped mountains. It would be dark soon and Keelan wanted to make sure he was a better Survivorman tonight. He needed a head start to scope out a good place to make camp.

“I can’t go with you. I-I have to get home,” he lied.

Brennen jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Look over there.”

He tore his gaze from the boy’s glowing eyes. The hills beyond the valley seemed to throb as the carpet of clover undulated in the wind. Twisted oaks and rounded stones dappled the rolling knolls.

“I was here yesterday! But…how did I get back?” Smacking his hand to his forehead, he muttered, “I hiked in a circle?” Survivorman never would have made that mistake.

They padded across the spongy turf as brilliant butterflies darted and danced around their heads. Stopping in front of one of those funny arched rocks, Brennen’s tingling fingers released his hand. This wasn’t a normal rock at all, but a headstone straight from a creepy Halloween graveyard. Keelan shook his head. But…this was a good place. Right?

Keelan’s knee sunk into the soggy earth as he knelt to inspect the name and dates carved in the silver granite.

“Open your bag,” the twin directed.

Keelan reached into the backpack. Between a pocket knife and a water bottle, he pulled out his warn baseball glove. He sniffed the musky leather and smiled. Then he pulled out a crisp ball, dug his fingertips in and tested its weight. Sitting criss-cross-applesauce, Keelan leaned against his stone. A pulsating heat began to spread along his spine and into his limbs. His arms and legs absorbed the warmth like roots soaking up water.

“Close your eyes, small and fair one.”

The boy squeezed his eyes tight as shivers rolled down his arms. Visions of blue walls, a pirate ship kite hanging over the bed and a dismembered Lego helicopter flashed across his mind. School books and baseball cards, stacked like a Main Street square, cover his small desk…

His eyes popped open. A whimper drew him from his sweet memory. Several feet away Timmy Webster lay curled and shivering near a russet headstone.

Blinking, he rubbed his eyes and looked around. Brennen was gone. His glove and ball were gone. As he leaned forward, Keelan’s body tore away from the slab with a nauseating slurp. He turned and poked the silver rock. Circular waves rippled across its surface as if he had dipped his finger into a calm tidal pool.

Timmy’s muffled whimper intensified as his damp eyes grew wide. Dozens of butterflies landed on him, nearly covering his thin body in a vibrating blanket. Dark tracks of tears and dirt streamed down his face as the gravestone behind him began to twist and swell. Cankerous boils erupted around the carved “TIMOTHY JAMES WEBSTER.” The largest bubble, growing out of “J”, elongated and turned in to a glistening tendril. The appendage tapped the ground, seemingly testing the blades of grass. The arm absorbed a hapless butterfly into its gelatinous goo just before it came to rest on Timmy’s head. Then the tendril solidified, slithered around his neck and squeezed. The boy’s eyes bulged out of their sockets and his bound legs kicked as one. The little redheaded boy dug his heels into the grass as the tentacle dragged him toward the headstone.

Keelan pushed himself up and ran over. He wrapped his arms around the boy’s waist. “I got you,” he grunted and pulled. Timmy’s face morphed from tomato red to eggplant indigo.

Keelan climbed over the boy, slipping his fingers between the greasy tentacle and Timmy’s neck. “Hang. On.” He loosened the pulsating arm and Timmy sucked in a lungful of air, his face quickly returning to its normal pallor. Keeping his fingers in place, Keelan reached around and yanked the bungee cords over Timmy’s hands. Together, they pulled on the arm and Timmy slipped his head out. They clawed at the cords around his legs and then the boys staggered and crab-walked away, sending the iridescent insects fluttering into the darkening sky.

Other tentacles burst forth from Timmy’s grave-marker and waved blindly in the air, seeking them out like a hungry octopus.

“C’mon,” Keelan said. He turned and sprinted uphill, scooping up his backpack along the way to the closest oak tree.

Timmy skidded to a stop next to Keelan and then gingerly removed the duct tape, exposing raw lips. Every gravestone dotting the hillside jiggled to life, whipping their balloon appendages about. It was as if the stones were a mob of portly garden gnomes, furious their dinner just got away. Keelan swallowed a few gulps of air and blew a long whistle of relief. The headstones remained in their spots.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Keelan tried to focus. He wondered what Survivorman would have done in this situation. However, Les never had an episode where he was attacked by freaky tombstone monsters.

Glancing around, Keelan said, “I spent last night in the woods, hiked all day and still ended up back here. So, I think we need to try the mountains tonight.”

“W-where are we?” Timmy croaked. He doubled-over to cough and his red hair caught the sunlight streaming between the leaves. His shaggy curls seemed to glow with fire, life and power.

Keelan leaned against the tree. “We’re lost.”

A high-pitched giggle erupted overhead. The boys skewed their heads for a look, finding only branches and leaves swaying in the wind.

“Such a nice little girl.” The man’s raspy voice seemed to come out of the tree trunk near Keelan’s ear. He jumped, startled more by the disembodied voice than the mysterious laugh. Timmy grabbed his arm, hands juddering as the all-familiar whimper began to rise.

But they were still alone.

“Shhh…” Keelan instructed and held his breath.

“I think my puppy ran into the woods…” The voice now came from above.

Keelan’s gaze panned down to the wooded valley. Visions of last night’s dream began to flicker across his mind in bits and pieces. Over the fresh breeze, he could almost detect moldy-cheese breath mixed with sweet peppermint. Backpack in place, he held a finger to his lips. Timmy stiffly nodded.

After prying the little boy’s iron grip from his arm, Keelan embraced the rough bark. He scaled up and into the first Y and paused, straining to hear the girl or the man.

Another giggle emerged through the swishing leaves. Keelan ascended while memories of his last climb danced in his head. This place was becoming clearer. When he left the hill the first time, some force had herded him back to the hills. Like a bull to the slaughterhouse. The tight knot in his stomach loosened as he realized the mountains would only land him back here…or worse.

The key to escaping the headstone hills was to remain in it.

The limbs became denser the higher he went. The air, fouler. The leaves began to stink of a hot port-a-potty. Between his legs he caught glimpses of Timmy also climbing, careful to place his hands and feet in the same places Keelan had. Soon Keelan couldn’t see anything but the gold, red and umber leaves resembling multi-limbed ghosts. Keelan closed his eyes and felt his way deeper into the canopy. The tangy scent of urine hung heavy on the moist air, threatening to choke him as he fought his way through.

After what felt like hours, Keelan’s fingers bumped up against something flat. Pushing his head through the leaves, the bottom of a wooden platform came in to view.

It was a tree house!

The branches scraped along the slats as he pushed them aside, trying to get a better look. Silver hinges shone in the perpetual twilight and a brass knob, near the edge of a smaller square, appeared tarnished with age.

Quiet as a mouse, Timmy snuggled on the branch next to Keelan. Their labored breathing calmed as they swiped sweat from their flushed brows. Staring hard at each other, the boys seemed to give the other strength to do what needed to be done. They were no longer alone. They had found an exit from their Elysian dream-world. And most importantly, there was a little girl in danger. After nodding in silent agreement, Keelan and Timmy glanced up at the trapdoor.

Keelan placed his ear against a crack between the boards. No sounds or movement could be detected from the other side. He gripped the knob and pushed gently, wincing at the sharp squeak from one of the hinges. As he peered into the room, urine and feces scents seared Keelan’s nostrils. He swallowed, forcing back the vomit threatening ejection. As his watery eyes adjusted to the dimness he could make out two blanket-covered lumps on the floor and a glowing camping lantern on a plastic crate. He could not see what was behind the raised trap door.

With all of his nine-year-old strength, Keelan braced his Vans against the branch and heaved. The door fell back and landed against the floor, blowing up a cloud of dust. Keelan jerked his head around and released his breath upon finding only empty space on the other side of the room.

No old man.

No little girl.

He quickly scrambled in, held a hand down and pulled Timmy up. They closed the door and stood fixed to their spots.

“What do we do now?” Timmy whispered.

In the glow of the lamp, a shock of red hair poked out from beneath one of the lumpy blankets. Keelan tip-toed over and cautiously pulled back the edge to reveal an unconscious Timmy-twin. The duct tape still covered his mouth, but a corner had come loose like a floppy dog ear.

Sucking in his breath, Keelan glanced over his shoulder. The liberated Timmy’s eyes grew wide and his inflamed mouth formed a perfect O. Suddenly, his body began to shimmer like iridescent butterfly wings. Keelan blinked and Timmy was gone.

Swiftly tugging off his backpack, Keelan took aim and threw it with the precisian of a professional pitcher. It landed next to the second lump just as Keelan faded into nothingness.

Keelan blinked as the moss-green wool of the Army blanket came in to focus. He hadn’t faded insomuch as simply resumed his spot on the floor. The same place the old man had dumped him and left him for dead. Judging by the rank stench, he figured they’d been in the tree house for a couple of days.

He licked his lips with a sandpaper tongue, his throat burned with thirst. Through his strong desire for water, he was grateful to find he did not have tape on his mouth.

“Timmy?” he squawked.

The most wonderful muffled groan arose near Keelan’s feet. Timmy was alive!

“Everything’s okay,” Keelan said. He licked his lips again and swallowed, desperately trying not to sound desperate. “I’m…I’m under the other blanket.”

The rough bindings around Keelan’s wrists and ankles scratched his skin. He figured he was tied with rope instead of bungee cord. Rubbing his wrists together they moved easily. The days without food or water must have caused his hands and arms to shrink but not enough to slip his hands free.

Moving his knees up and down, the blanket fell from Keelan’s face to reveal only Timmy, the crate and the lamp. Glancing over his shoulder the backpack was where Headstone Hills Keelan had tossed it. He scooted his butt until it made contact. His fingers fumbled with the zipper, tugging it inch by agonizing inch while turning the canvas knapsack over as he went.

Thump! Tink! Clunk! One by one the mystical items fell out of the supernatural bag.

His fingers curled around the cylinder-shaped pocket knife. Had he any fluid left in his body, the small and fair Irish boy would have wept with joy. After caressing the tool, he used his thumbnail to flick out the blade. Twisting his right hand, he sawed methodically through the rope.

Slowly and dizzily, Keelan crawled over to Timmy and untangled the bungee cords. The child’s wobbly redhead seemed far too big for his frail body. But he was alive.

We’re alive!

The boys shared sips of water from Keelan’s bottle and slowly chewed the last chocolate chip granola bars, blissfully unaware they were covered in their own excrement and purposely ignoring their various aches and pains.

Bending close to Timmy’s ear, Keelan whispered his plan. Timmy said nothing as he lay back down and pulled the soiled blanket over his head. The wind howled outside, shaking the ancient oak tree. Keelan found comfort in the wind, imagining it was Mom whispering his name, encouraging him to be strong.

Time ticked by. Keelan matched his breathing with Timmy’s.

Beneath them, the floor rattled. The huff and puff of the old man and the low sobs of the little girl grew exponentially louder.

With a sharp squeal, the trap door opened several inches. Keelan saw what the old man did: two bumpy blankets and a glowing lantern placed on a crate. With a ragged exhale, the man shoved the bound girl across the floor. Her little yellow dress bunched up around her waist, exposing bruised legs and ripped Dora the Explorer underpants.

Keelan forced back a yelp of despair as his mind questioned how he was going to go through with this. He was just a kid. A kid against a strong man. But the girl was so young, maybe only four?

Survivorman would survive. No matter what. The three of them would survive. No matter what.

The trap door in front of Keelan swung higher. He held his breath while the old man grunted and climbed in. With a ferocious growl Keelan kicked the door. It slammed shut with a deafening bang that shook the walls just as he catapulted himself onto the stranger’s back. His left hand caught the man’s mouth, anchoring onto the slimy cheek just as his legs locked around the guy’s flabby waist.

“Waa thaa..?” the old man sputtered through his sideways-yanked mouth.

Keelan pulled the pocket knife across his throat, digging in hard against the tough cords. Hot blood spurted across the room like a garden sprinkler. Keelan slipped off just as Timmy hopped up and kicked the man in the nuts, causing his last gurgled breath to exit through the new gash in his windpipe.

As the stranger crumpled to the ground, a pinwheel peppermint rolled out of his mouth and came to rest in the crimson pool.

With adrenaline coursing through his veins, Keelan plucked the blanket off his backpack and cleaned his shaking hands. Timmy picked up the knife and cut the little girl free.

As the three of them hugged and cried and trembled, Keelan knew he would soon see his blue walls, sleep under his pirate ship kite and get a chance to reassemble his dismembered Lego helicopter. School books and baseball cards, stacked like a Main Street square, waited for him.

THE END

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(The characters and events portrayed in this story are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. All rights are reserved under U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. Les Stroud from the Discovery Channel’s Survivorman is a real person and I encourage you to check out his TV show…you never know when you may find yourself in a strange survival situation. Oh, and I probably got the logistics for starting a fire with a magnesium/flint stick wrong…but hey, it’s my story.)

Little Survivorman

The boy squeezed his eyes tight as shivers rolled down his arms. Visions of blue walls, a pirate ship kite hanging over the bed and a dismembered Lego helicopter flashed across his mind. School books and baseball cards, stacked like a Main Street square, cover his small desk…

His eyes popped open. The sun setting behind the mountains painted the fingerling clouds dazzling tangerines and pinks. The air had retained the heat of the day, but a chill graced the late afternoon breeze.

Stupid butterflies! Go away! Stupid beetle! Get off my foot!

The striped insect tumbled through the air as the boy kicked his leg. The orange and blue butterflies flittered into the trees, leaving him all alone in the shadows of the gnarled oaks. The dark forms of the warped stones scattered across the hills stretched and extended as if they were flowers, nurtured and fed by the vanishing light. The grass swirled in the wind, releasing the tangy-clean scent of center field.

The boy wished he had his ball and glove while he waited for Mom.

Just beyond the arching stones, a weeping creek trickled down the hill and the sunset ignited the water into flowing red lava.

The wind ruffled his hair, sending goose pimples down his arms. He traced a finger over his skin, mesmerized by the hairs standing at attention. A hand-sized maple leaf somersaulted across the grass as he glanced around for his ride…home.

Tired of just sitting, the boy pushed himself up, brushed the dirt from his jeans and tossed his backpack over one shoulder. It was going to be dark soon and he didn’t want get stuck out in the open.

He studied the jagged mountain range. Was there a town along the baseline? Should he head that direction? Downhill, a wooded valley ran parallel with the mountains and the creek likely flowed into a bigger stream. The guy from Survivorman always said to follow a river because it will lead you to people.

Valley-hooo!

The decline was steeper than it looked as he angled his feet and allowed gravity pull him down. Upon entering the forest, the absence of light was unsettling. He jumped at an owl hooting. Quivering, the boy snapped his head around as unseen critters skittered under bushes, rustling the low stems. Thick twigs snapped under his Vans and echoed off the dense trees like rifle shots.

Dropping the backpack on a log, the boy rooted inside for his green hoody and flashlight while commending his intelligence on packing all the necessary survival gear. Just like Les, his Survivorman hero, recommended.

Locating the stream, the boy hopped along the flat rocks until his flashlight flickered. He froze, prickles of fear crept up his chest as he shook his only light-source. Moments later the yellow beam steadied and he exhaled a huff of relief.

Walking in the woods at night wasn’t such a good idea. Survivorman would have created a lean-to, built a fire and foraged for edibles by now. The boy ambled over to a fallen tree, rustled around for kindling and created a ring with fist-sized rocks. The magnesium bits he scraped off sparkled like Fourth of July fireworks as they rained upon the dry twigs. He lowered his face and blew on the smoky embers until a flame erupted. After savoring his chocolate chip granola bar, the heat from the dancing flames lulled his heavy eyelids closed.

A thunderous snap-crunch! yanked him out of a dreamless sleep. Bolting upright, the boy banged his shoulder on a branch of the tree.

“Wh-who’s there?” His voice trembled.

Rubbing his sore shoulder, he focused on the inky black stream snaking along the ground. Shadowy trees bowed in the howling wind while pairs of glowing green orbs peeked out of murky nooks.

Tossing sticks onto the dying fire, he blew until flames licked high into the air, forcing back the encroaching darkness.

A high-pitched yowl pierced the air. A phantom, straight from H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks, wailed and cackled until the wind whipped it into hiccupping sobs. Leathery wings beat against his head and chest and the boy jumped up, thrashing his hands around.

“Keee…laaaaan…” the wind whistled. Mom always said “Keelan” fit him perfectly. It was Irish for small and fair.

The sobbing wail came again, only further away and somehow familiar, less frightening. Keelan slid down the dead tree until his butt smacked the ground, pulled his knees tight to his chest and ignored the pressure in his bladder. Not even the burning desire to pee would pull him from his fire tonight.

The misty morning washed away the eerie vibes from the night before. Red-breasted Robins kicked at leaves and clenched squirming worms between their beaks. With the fire safely out, Keelan resumed his hike along the bank of the stream. The sun climbed higher and burned away the haze. The trees thinned and the creek narrowed until it was swallowed by a muddy pool at the base of a terracotta-red precipice. He inhaled the mildew-silt aroma and exhaled a stream of vapor. Craning his neck, there was only one way out of the chilly dead-end valley.

Hand over hand, the boy clambered up the cliff wall like a small, green Spiderman with a lumpy backpack. He grabbed onto roots and found footholds just big enough for the toe of his checkered Vans.

“KEEE…LAAAAN!” The wind roared and gusted across the crag, swirling around the boy and threatening to knock him off. His hands grappled with the lip of the cliff, his arms shook as he struggled against gravity and Mother Nature.

Suddenly, a hand seized his wrist and yanked. He flew over the edge, landed hard on his stomach and oxygen evacuated his lungs in a long whoosh.

“Hey kid, you okay?”

Wiping the stinging sweat out of his eyes, he caught his breath and looked up at the strange boy. Keelan could have been staring at his reflection in a mirror were it not for the twin’s eyes. They were two shimmering pools of the brightest blue Keelan had ever seen.

“Who are you?”

The twin smiled and shifted his backpack higher, threading an arm through the strap. Even his clothes and hair were the same as Keelan’s. Mom always told him he had chameleon hair; auburn indoors and strawberry-blond in the sunlight.

“My name’s Brennen. Mom says it’s Irish for teardrop.” He kicked a rock into the ravine. Bouncing, the lone stone knocked other pebbles free to keep it company until they reached their destination.

“I’m Keelan.” He didn’t share his name’s meaning. That was his secret.

“C’mon. We have to go.” The twin bounced on the balls of his feet, seemingly in a hurry.

The sun trekked closer to the snow-tipped mountains. It would be dark soon and Keelan wanted to make sure he was a better Survivorman tonight. He needed a head start to scope out a good place to make camp.

“I can’t go with you. I-I have to get home,” he lied.

Brennen jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Look over there.”

He tore his gaze from the boy’s glowing eyes. The hills beyond the valley seemed to throb as the carpet of clover rippled in the wind. Twisted oaks and rounded stones dappled the rolling knolls.

“I was here yesterday! But…how did I get back?” Smacking his hand to his forehead, he muttered, “I hiked in a circle?” Survivorman never would have made that mistake.

They padded across the spongy turf as brilliant butterflies darted and danced around their heads. Stopping in front of one of those funny arched rocks, Brennen’s tingling fingers released his hand. This wasn’t a normal rock at all, but a headstone straight from a creepy Halloween graveyard. Keelan shook his head. But…this was a good place.

Keelan’s knee sunk into the soggy earth as he knelt to inspect the name and dates carved in the silver granite.

“Open your bag,” the twin instructed.

Keelan reached into the backpack. Between a pocket knife and the flashlight, he pulled out his warn baseball glove. He sniffed the musky leather and smiled. Then he pulled out a crisp ball, dug his fingertips in and tested its weight. Sitting criss-cross-applesauce, Keelan leaned against his stone. A pulsating heat began to spread along his spine and into his limbs. His arms and legs absorbed the warmth like roots soaking up water.

“Close your eyes, small and fair one.”

The boy squeezed his eyes tight as shivers rolled down his arms. Visions of blue walls, a pirate ship kite hanging over the bed and a dismembered Lego helicopter flashed across his mind. School books and baseball cards, stacked like a Main Street square, cover his small desk.

Sorry for not posting as much as I would have liked this summer. The kids are finally in school, but I’m officially an official Soccer Mom x 3 (2 kids, 3 teams, oy!). I don’t anticipate I’ll be posting much over the next few months either. If the weather holds out (Seattle? I know, right?) I plan on finishing up the landscaping in the backyard, and we should close on our new 1908 rental home…just in time for me to paint, tear out stinky carpets, monitor the electrician removing and replacing the old knob and tube wiring and then…hopefully…finding an awesome renter just in time for the holidays.

And don’t get me started on October!! I’ve signed up for two of the greatest writer’s conferences in the Pacific Northwest: Write on the Sound (WOTS) in Edmonds and the Emerald City Writers Conference (ECWC) in Bellevue. Poor Husband will be toting the kids to their games solo those weekends.

But right now? I’m wrapping up my short horror story for the next Writers Digest contest (due this Friday – ACK!) and then I’m going to return to my novel and re-write it all into 3rd person pursuant to wonderful advice I received from my fantastic editor.

So, for now, I leave you with my favorite Snow Patrol song “Chocolate” while I prepare for their next concert this October. Yes! Again! Twice in one year! How can I get so lucky? May Snow Patrol keep you company while this Irish girl runs around Seattle and (hopefully) writes her fingers off!

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Children are running rampant all over my house. The dog and cat are under my feet. The contractors are hauling reverberating equipment across my backyard.

And of course, I got instrumental feedback from my editor on my book and I have to re-write all the first person point-of-views into third person POV. I don’t have a problem doing that. I can do that. Except…I can’t get more than five minutes of quiet before I have to yell at someone or make a sandwich or hold on to the china as my house rumbles from a falling tree.

In addition to the craziness at my home, I have to find ways to entertain the boys and of course every day is filled with some sort of activity (some are fun like soccer, and some…not so much…like the dentist. Oy.) and the weekends are jam-packed with plans (weddings, travel/vacation, house-hunting for potential investments, etc.). Throw in a couple of birthdays, anniversaries and girls-night and I start to long for the new school year.

But I am so motivated right now to get back to editing my book that I just CAN’T wait until September. I have to find a way to shut out the distractions. I write best in the morning but those hours seem to fly by. Maybe I should get up earlier? If I can squeeze in some quiet writing from 5-8, I should be okay…right? Maybe 4am? *cringe*

Hold on…the chainsaw is revving up out back and my 8-year-old just placed his head on my shoulder asking for a snack. When I ignore him, he assumes that means “yes” and proceeds to the pantry. Now he is passing out Pop Tarts to the 4-year-old who just got a cavity fixed yesterday. NO! POP! TARTS! He is pacified with a Go-Gurt (is that really any better?) and they exit the kitchen.

*sigh* I think I’ll do some laundry and watch last nights’ recording of Hardball with Chris Matthews – FYI, I’m also seriously missing my MSNBC now that the Olympics have taken over…not that I don’t love the Olympics, but this Irish girl is officially all outta whack.